The Makings of a Damsel
by blue meridian
Summary: Ch. 4 up! This is a fairy tale. Meaning that this is a tale about magic, dragons and damsels, and that this is a tale about two gay boys. AU HD silliness.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I OWN IT!!! I REALLY DO!!! I OWN– no. I don't. Dammit. The mighty Rowling owns Harry and Draco; all I have is a computer, an obsession, and a cucumber in my mini-fridge. Except it isn't really my mini-fridge. C'es la vie.

Warning: This story contains slash, which, roughly translated, means good ol' same-sex, sweet, passionate boy-luvvvvvvv. Deal with it. Or just read something else.

A/N: AU H/D nonsense, in which we see a reluctant dragon, an accidental soon-to-be savior, and, most importantly, Draco in drag. Throw confetti, children, and rejoice.

The Makings of a Damsel

Prologue

There was once a village, and, like most villages that once were, this village was charming and moderately prosperous, but harbored a dark secret. In the tradition of fairy tale villages everywhere, this village was situated near a gloomy and foreboding woods about which parents whispered quick, insistent warnings to their children.

Naturally, this woods contained a dragon, and, like most dragons that lived in woods, this dragon demanded a sacrifice every ten years. In the tradition of fairy tale dragons everywhere, this dragon would force the village to offer up the most beautiful maiden its walls sheltered, and after the villagers deposited her in the darkness of the woods, the dragon would appear from nowhere and devour her shrieking form. Such was the way of things.

However, the dragon grew old, and one night, in the shadows and the silence, he gave in to death; his magnificent jaws were parted peacefully, his eyes blissfully shut with the last happy thought of terror and chewy flesh. When the village had not heard ravenous growls for many moons, they sent the bravest son out to unveil the dragon's whereabouts. The young son triumphantly returned with the news that the dragon, at last, the terrible dragon was dead!

But sometimes villagers are rather stupid, because even a dragon has offspring. This particular dragon's get had been traveling in the Mediterranean, but upon hearing of his father's death, he rushed home to take up the family mantle. Now the son-dragon was a simple creature. He was not actually inclined to violence or gore, and had no real taste for beautiful maidens, but he felt bound to uphold the family honor (for dragons are, in fact, quite honorable). So with reluctance he made his first tyrannous decree: a child must be sent to the woods, never to be seen again.

Now the village had been celebrating the death of the dragon for about a week, making an abundance of wine, cake, and noise. However, when they heard the decree, they sighed and set down their lutes and jugs of mead, and began to discuss which child should be sent. They were, after all, used to disappointments. Now of course, none of the children whose parents attended the meeting could be chosen, but one particular woman by the name of Narcissa Malfoy had not deemed to join them. The Mrs. Malfoy was a bit of a snob, as were, the villagers agreed, all the members of her family. In her absence, discussion rose of the Malfoy child, a disagreeable boy of eight or nine, who often hit the other children when they didn't do exactly as he told them. Now the father of the Malfoy family was a formidable figure, one which nary a villager dared to cross, but he was out of town for a time, and so it was decided that the Malfoy child should go. The Mrs. Malfoy weakly protested, but in the end nothing could save her son. He was taken to the potions master of the village and made to drink a substance that would ensure that he did not run away, angering the dragon in doing so. As the maroon liquid slid down his throat, a curious marking appeared just a bit to the left on his forehead, shaped like a flattened-out crescent moon. And so, mumbling tidbits about "idiot simpletons" and "my father," the small child was taken to the woods and flung to the ground, his deliverers scampering off.

"Effing sods," he muttered sourly as he got up, for despite his pretentiousness, he was really not a well-mannered child. Then, with a display of courage beyond his years, he bravely attempted to flee the woods. Unfortunately, he discovered that he could not get beyond the thickest part of the woods without falling down. Growling in exasperation, he tried again and again to go farther, but all he got for his efforts was a bit of dirt and grass in his mouth, and a thoroughly wounded pride. He mentally cursed the village potions master for being so adept and heaved himself forward one last time, landing miserably on his back after a spectacular arc through the air. Choosing to die with dignity rather than live out his days falling all over the place like an idiot, he abandoned his attempts and rested until morning in a slightly less forbidding patch of darkness. With the rising of the sun, he sighed and walked back to the shadowy depths of the woods, hoping at least to get this business of being eaten over with as quickly as possible. But before long he came upon a tiny clearing, and in this clearing was a quaint little hut with white stone walls and a thatched roof. Then, out of nowhere appeared the much-feared dragon, and the Malfoy child squealed a bit and searched for a place to hide. The dragon seemed to raise its eyebrows in amusement, although he had none, and began to speak.

"You know, if I had really planned on eating you, I would have done so quite some time ago." There was something in the touch of gentle exasperation in his voice that suggested twinkling blue eyes peering over half-moon spectacles. "Now then, what is your name, my boy?"

The blond boy stared suspiciously for a stretch of seconds, and then begrudgingly answered, "Draco Malfoy."

"Indeed? Well then Mister Malfoy, allow me to inform you that you are not going to be eaten, that you are instead to remain here in this woods and keep me company until your Imprisoning Potion wears off."

Touching his fingers to his newly-acquired marking, Draco turned sullen. "It doesn't wear off. The potions master told me. There's no antidote."

"Perhaps so," said the dragon in a considering tone, "Perhaps so. Now then, you can see that I've provided you with lodgings, and food and water can be scavenged easily enough in these woods, but I'm afraid the only clothes I have for you are remnants from my father's days of chewing up beautiful maidens." After a pause: "That is to say, they are women's clothing." Now Draco thought he could definitely see a twinkle in the dragon's eyes, though they were green and not blue.

"There are many articles, as it seems my father hoarded them quite obsessively, so you won't lack for fitting sizes as you grow older. You can see them there in the trunk inside the hut, if you care to go in."

With a wary step, Draco pushed open the rotting oak door, locating the trunk in the back left-hand corner. It was handsomely carved, if a bit dented around the edges, and it creaked pleasantly as he opened it. Inside was a wide array of both plain and fancy dresses, some fit for girls of his age and some that would swallow him whole if he tried them on. Still, he reckoned, better to be swallowed whole by a dress than a dragon. After that fleeting moment of optimism, his typical bitter expression returned and he exited the hut.

"I'll wear my own things. I'm not touching those silly dresses for as long as I can manage it."

"Of course," the dragon nodded, "Then I shall be on my way. There's a stream to the north if you need running water." With that, the jovial dragon turned to leave.

"Er-wait!" Draco shot out, a bit afraid of being left on his own, "What am I to call you?"

The dragon looked thoughtful, which was an odd look on a dragon, and replied, "I never really had a name. Dragons don't usually mess with trivial things like that. But I daresay it would be fun to be called something. How about...Buttercup!" The dragon brightened visibly.

Draco stared.

"I thought not," sighed the dragon, his head drooping, "Well then, just Dragon will have to do. Farewell to you, young Draco Malfoy." With a polite bow, just Dragon shuffled off, his tail swaying from side to side.

Draco glanced around nervously, and decided upon inspecting the hut more closely. It was rather compact, as most huts are, but it had that charm that fairy tale huts are required to have, and if Draco had not been intent on resenting it he would have found it quite appealing. To the left there was a small bed with a number of faded blankets piled on top of it, and just past the bed was the wooden trunk. Across from the trunk was a lopsided bookshelf, housing dusty, dilapidated tomes, an assortment of glass vials, and, for some reason, a large, obscenely purple boot. Next to the bookshelf, a scant few feet away from the bed, was a spindly-looking desk with a stack of parchment and a quill and inkwell resting on top of it. Draco figured this could also do for a table, as there was a heavy-looking earthen pot squatting next to it on the dirt floor. Just above the desk was a half-heartedly rectangular window, really just an absence of stones, from which could be seen the western side of the clearing and a bit of the middle. A tattered bit of cloth was strung up above the opening, clearly meaning to be a curtain of sorts, and was currently tied up out of the way to let in light. With a somewhat woeful sigh, Draco Malfoy sat on his new bed and stared out the window. As night returned and stars appeared, he willed one of the larger ones to loose itself from its position in the sky and crash down to the sleeping village below, wreaking chaos and painful, flaming death upon those that had forced this detestable situation upon him.

A/N: Poor Draco. This was mostly expository, so it was a little bit boring...I suppose that's the typical prologue for you. I'd be pleased to hear thoughtful criticism, lavish praise, outraged protests, and random limericks from you all.


	2. Ch 1 Living Spaces

Disclaimer: I OWN IT!!! I REALLY DO!!! I OWN– no. I don't. Dammit. The mighty Rowling owns Harry and Draco; all I have is a computer, an obsession, and a cucumber in my mini-fridge. Except it isn't really my mini-fridge. C'es la vie.

Warning: This story contains slash, which, roughly translated, means good ol' same-sex, sweet, passionate boy-luvvvvvvv. Deal with it. Or just read something else.

A/N: So, after all that tedious exposition, the story actually begins. In this chapter, poor hapless Draco delves into the world of women's fashion and is besotted with a certain black-haired boy. He just hasn't realized it yet.

The Makings of a Damsel

Chapter One:

Living Spaces

The years wore on, as they tend to do in order to get to the actual story, and Draco became reluctantly accustomed to his new life. He learned to pick berries and roots when he could find them, and became especially good at annoying the less ferocious animals until they gave him food when he could not find any. He dug a small fire pit outside the hut window, which the dragon would obligingly light when it grew especially cold. When the sun was high and the creatures of the forest seemed less inclined to attacking him than usual, Draco explored the woods within his allowed boundaries, finding it mostly to be the same all around.

Draco did not want for pastimes, for he became well-versed in the art of entertaining himself. Putting the sour feelings of the past behind him, he did lovely things, like picking flowers (which he then viciously tore to pieces), singing songs (with tasteless and offensive lyrics that drove the forest animals to vexation), and practicing his penmanship (by listing all the horrible things he would do to the villagers if he ever escaped the confines of the woods). He also delved into the contents of the shoddy bookshelf, finding a mixture of fanciful fiction and instructional volumes on things that he might have learned from the potions master in the village. While he hopefully searched their chapters for ways to counteract the Imprisonment Potion, he found none, and continued his studies with only a half-hearted interest. As for company, the dragon would stop by his hut every second week or so, and while Draco's friendship with the dragon had a distinct flavor of sulkiness and could only be attributed to his desire to avoid being shredded to bits by gleaming teeth, he began to count on the visits, to stifle the boredom, at least.

Eventually he grew out of the clothes he had been wearing upon his arrival, and with his teeth gritted, he turned to the wooden trunk. Over the years he went through a number of personal favorites. At the age of eleven he was partial to a pretty blue gown that billowed out and showed off his ankles. At thirteen he favored a simple black frock with sleeves to his elbows and a cinch-up front. The following year he went through a bawdy, rebellious stage typical of blossoming adolescence, and sported an evocative crimson peasant dress. The revealing garb had loose, off-the-shoulder sleeves and a low cut front that he sometimes stuffed with leaves when he felt the birds weren't looking. This habit died out, and in the end he settled on an imposing green and silver garment with a high, snug collar and fitted sleeves that tapered off at his wrists. The skirt hung down straight without so much as a bow or a billow, and he felt he rather looked like a mage. In time he grew to pride himself on his appearance, certain that he was the most impressive-looking castaway this woods had ever had the pleasure of seeing. He took to slicking his hair back with a mixture of water and tree sap, and smirking saucily at his reflection in the stream. The only thing that marred his visage was that damned scar on his forehead, which he tried to hide by letting a section of hair fall forward over it. He felt certain that the disfiguring scar would vanish if he could only break the potion's hold on him, but of course if that happened, he would be much too concerned with maiming the populace of his dear homeland to bother with a silly thing like a scar.

Thus, with a somewhat vindictive will to live, Draco carried on his existence in the dark woods, with only the bemusing dragon for company. He would have gone on in this fashion, except that there is a story to be told, and that would make for a remarkably dull story. So let us introduce our catalyst and get on with it.

One sun-dappled afternoon, Draco was scratching his somewhat mangled quill over a yellowing piece of parchment, detailing an extremely nasty potion that he had read about in one of the thicker volumes. With relish, he described the dire, debilitating illness caused by the concoction, and how he would poison the village well with the substance and laugh maniacally as he watched the village inhabitants scream and writhe in anguish. He was listing specific playmates of old that he would get particular glee out of seeing suffer when he heard an irksomely cheerful humming. Nearly blotting the page in his hurry to stand up, he looked frantically outside the window for the offending figure. Just on the edge of the clearing, looking about with amiable curiosity, was a wiry black-haired boy with an easy grin and a pair of mocking green eyes. As the wind tousled the boy's unruly hair, Draco's eyes widened at the sight of a strange, lightning-bolt shaped scar not dissimilar to his own.

The stranger's eyes traveled over to the hut, and Draco frantically ducked down and put his hands over his mouth. He had an inexplicable desire to remain undiscovered, and his eyes darted all over the meager hut for a place to hide. Hearing the swish of footsteps through grass drawing nearer, he crawled across the floor and squeezed himself into the trunk of dresses. The wooden confinement cut off all sound except for Draco's own breathing, which he distractedly hoped wasn't loud enough to attract attention. A knocking at the door paralyzed him entirely, and as the seconds wore on in silence, a random worry that he had not tidied up before company came itched in the back of his brain. He stifled a sigh of relief when he remembered that the door had been barred earlier that morning, but panicked again when he realized that there was nothing preventing the intruder from climbing in through the window. Having no way of telling when or if the boy had left, Draco stayed in the chest until claustrophobia got the better of him, and then cautiously lifted the lid an inch. Seeing no one, he rolled gracelessly out of the box and onto the unforgiving dirt floor. He got up and peered out the window, but the clearing was utterly devoid of mysterious, oddly charming boys.

Letting out a breath of relief (disappointment?), Draco promptly strode the two feet to the bookshelf and pulled out an ominous text with a black-turned-grey cover. He had no idea if the boy planned on returning, but if so, Draco had no intention of being caught unawares. Flipping past page after page of spidery writing, he stopped at a passage titled _The Art of Going Unnoticed_. Running his finger down the rough paper, he found what he was looking for: a potion that would let the drinker remain unseen for weeks at a time. It was not an invisibility potion per se, rather it caused the drinker to blend with his surroundings so that he would become unworthy of notice, even if a person were actively looking for him. Scanning the script, Draco saw that the only stipulation was that the potion be made by the dark of the moon. The ingredients varied, but none were too difficult to obtain. Draco smirked when he saw dragon's scales listed; he was probably the only person who could deem that particular material "not too difficult to obtain." He would have to bide his time until the dragon's next visit, but after that he had but to wait just a few days for the new moon, and then he could prepare the potion. As long as he was vigilant until then, he would be fine.

The next few days went without incident, and when the boy did come back, Draco was on his guard. Rather than stay in his hut, Draco had spent a great deal of time outdoors, where it would be easier to hide in just such an emergency. He hid now behind an aging cypress, just a few yards from the edge of the clearing, and watched as the blob-like form across the field sat down in the grass, apparently to have lunch. After a few minutes had passed, Draco realized he was holding his breath and let it out. The noises of the woods chattered on as the sun moved through the trees, and after finishing his meal, the black-haired boy got up and left just as silently as he had come.

The following evening the dragon ambled over for a chat. He listened and was delighted at the turn of events, and although he seemed more keen on the idea of Draco making friends with the boy than hiding from him, he genially scratched off a few greyish-green scales for Draco to use, saying, "I have far too many of these. I really should just give up this business of growing them."

Thus, by the dark of the moon, with only a few stars to light his progress, Draco mixed and sprinkled into the heavy clay pot in accordance with the instructions. Stirring in the powdered arrowroot and making sure the potion was the proper color (a pale, translucent blue), he quickly poured the fluid into five separate bottles before it could congeal. He then stoppered each bottle but one. Being careful not to shake the potion, Draco picked up the open bottle and swallowed the contents in one breathless gulp. Looking about him, he waited for something to happen. He held his hand out in front of him to gauge his results, and was watching it intently when the sound around him began to fade. Simultaneously, the world around him blurred and brightened, and then his hearing cut off completely. Desperate for any sort of sound, Draco shook his head and screamed, but it was as if that scream existed in another realm, one that Draco was very much removed from. His vision faded in and out, shifting from grey to darkest red, and back to jarringly electric white again. Draco knew that he was hyperventilating, but the fact that he couldn't hear himself breathing made him feel helpless to control it. Suddenly a quick clenching gripped his chest violently, and then subsided before he could even register the pain, like the sensation of putting out a candle with wet fingers. To his whimpering, astounded relief, his hearing was restored, and as he heard himself collapse onto the wet grass he wiped the tears from his eyes and smiled shakily, feeling childishly grateful. After regaining his breath, he looked around and noticed that it was somehow much harder for him to see where his arm ended and the grass and trees beyond began. Observing that this was true with the rest of his body as well, he assumed that the potion had worked. He placed the other four decanters in the pot and gleefully dragged it back into the hut, elated with his success. With a satisfied smile he rolled into his squishy bed and closed his eyes. As long as he took a bit of potion every few weeks, he could not be seen by the wandering boy or by anything else.

And so Draco walked about freely and fearlessly, and when the black-haired boy arrived in the clearing some days later, Draco simply stood in the middle of the field, almost defiant in his voyeurism. The boy came more frequently after that, sometimes bringing food (bread and cheese seemed to be his primary staple), and sometimes just coming to relax. On one occasion, the boy brought a small, leather-bound book and wrote with his modest quill until the sun went down. Sometimes Draco could tell that the boy had visited while he himself had been off gathering food or some such errand. Birds would be pecking at a spot of crumbs left behind or grass would be short where it had been absently torn from the ground.

A bit of uncertainty was caused when the stranger left his short, flimsy cloak behind one morning. Draco hesitated, unable to decide if it were better to leave the cloak there and hope nothing happened to it or keep it safe and return it to the boy in person, exposing himself. He decided to leave it at least for the night, and the event was concluded when the boy came back for it the next day. Draco's barriers were breached further one afternoon in fall, when he came home to find a misshapen loaf of bread on the broad stone that served as his windowsill. Draco was again presented with a choice. If he ate the bread, that action would be a sure confirmation that someone was living in the hut. On the other hand, even a chunk of slightly burnt bread offered a bit of gratifying variety when confronted with an endless barrage of edible forest plantae. Finally convincing himself that the hut had enough signs of recent use anyway to justify throwing caution to the wind, he bit into the bread and concluded that it was a bit brittle for his taste.

Things went pleasantly enough as autumn progressed, with the black-haired boy turning up nearly every day and Draco taking his potion as often as was needed. From time to time, Draco would wonder how the boy had come to explore the woods, where he lived, what sort of family he had, and that sort of thing, but then he would abruptly shake himself out of his reverie and focus on newer, more horrific ways to torture the much-loathed villagers. Despite his resolve, his list of possible revenges had often been neglected as of late, although he continued to tear up wildflowers whenever he came across them and wasn't in the middle of something. The dragon had been visiting less frequently, because he had said he was "a tad shy of strangers," and didn't want to alert the new boy of his presence.

"He might be frightening," said the dragon gravely, "Or he might try to keep me as a pet. You see that sort of thing so often these days." At this Draco snorted in response, and told the dragon that this boy wasn't loony enough to do a thing like that. The dragon peered curiously down his snout at the blond boy, but left it at, "You're right, of course."

Two bread loaves and a shower of falling leaves later, however, Draco had to reconsider his position in this unconventional not-quite-friendship. He was walking back from a trip to the stream and absently letting his mind meander, when he suddenly jolted himself out of his daze and froze. The black-haired boy was leaning up against a tree no more than three feet in front of him, munching on a hunk of milk-white cheese. Draco stood, rigid and terrified, as the boy proceeded to his bread. The potion offered the ability to not be seen, certainly, but it had no guarantees against the dangers of proximity. What if the boy stood up and bumped right into him, what then?! Moving out of the way simply did not occur to Draco's panic-stricken mind. As the black-haired boy wiped the crumbs off his lap, Draco prayed fiercely that he would turn around and walk the other way. However, instead of getting up to leave, the boy rolled up his cloak, placed it under his head, and curled up to take a nap. Draco blinked in surprise and then waited, and the moments stretched on. As the boy's breathing grew slow and heavy, Draco exhaled. This was a brilliant stroke of luck. He could make his escape and the boy would be none the wiser. Now was his chance for the perfect getaway. He vaguely realized he had sat down next to the boy.

Scrutinizing, Draco took in the sleeping figure before him. Up close, he could see that the boy was really no younger than he was himself, that his woeful choice of too-big clothing only made him appear to be small. Perhaps, Draco reflected, there had not actually been much of a "choice" involved. His hair was even more unkempt than it had appeared from far away; he had an errant freckle just below his cheekbone. Dark eyebrows and eyelashes gave his skin a sort of haunting luster that it probably would have lacked otherwise. His scar was visible through his mess of hair, and Draco wondered quietly where he had gotten it. The boy's countenance was soft and peaceful, but something in the set of his eyes, more visible now that they were closed, suggested that he was not unfamiliar with trouble. But there was that smile still, that unconquerable smile, playing on his lips. Draco squirmed as he felt an unexplainable surge of annoyance. Really, what kind of person was so happy all the time? It was ridiculous. Even in the face of threadbare clothing and stale bread and that_ scar_, how could anyone possibly _smile_ like that? It was absolutely impossible. Draco narrowed his eyes at the boy. It was sheer cheek, that was what it was, like that time that he had been humming when Draco first saw him, humming that aggravating, chipper tune without a second thought, humming and swinging his arms and _smiling_ as if things would actually be alright...a spring of hope shot up unbidden from Draco's heart, and he angrily squashed it back down, still staring. _How could anyone_...

The boy was an idiot, Draco decided.

As the sunlight rippled across the two of them, Draco glared at the sleeper a bit longer than was strictly necessary. Then, with a confused scowl, he got up quickly and stalked back to his hut.

A/N: So that seemed a bit long when I was writing it. Nonetheless, that's probably what the other chapters will be like. This is all very experimental, as I've never done a multi-part fic before. Wanna tell me how I'm doing? To be more precise, wanna tell me how much I suck? Go for it. Feedback is my three-color Mexican fiesta. Arrriba!


	3. Ch 2 Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire

Disclaimer: Poor innocent Harry Potter and poor...not-quite-so-innocent...Draco Malfoy just happened to wander into my story-starved clutches; they really belong to J. K. All cower before her. The Dumbledore Dragon concept is mine, unless Jo's holding out on us, but his character basis is still the property of Her Eminence Rowling. Grovel, mortals, grovel and flee like hell.

Warning: Implications of HOMOSEXUAL MALES IN LOVE WITH EACH OTHER can be found in this fic. Just once, I wanted to write that in shockingly noticeable capital letters. Kind of like writing SEX on top of an advertisement for our Literary Arts magazine to get people's attention...

A/N: Hmm, after the first two chapters it took me a little while to summon up the will to charge forward with the fic. Hopefully that's something I'll get better at. In this chapter, winter comes to break up our favorite couple, Draco and Harry. Oh, and the dragon gets nostalgic. Caffeine is oh-so-terrible for a serious writer. Good thing I'm not one. Onward, ho!

The Makings of a Damsel

Chapter Two

Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire

"I apologize," said Draco coldly, "Could you repeat that one more time?"

The dragon sighed good-naturedly. "Dilly Bobble," he repeated matter-of-factly, earning him a withering stare from the temperamental blonde. Winter was fast approaching, and the dragon was leaving the following day for a vacation in Bali. As such, he was teaching Draco a simple spell to conjure up a fire, since he himself would not be available to do so. Draco, however, had trouble with certain fundamental concepts.

"You're telling me that the magical words for igniting a fire are..." and here he gritted his teeth, "_Dilly Bobble_?"

A flame caught on the pile of wood beside him.

"Well done," said the dragon, "Excellent force behind that one."

Draco slumped in defeat. "Dilly Bobble, _honestly_..." he muttered. "Are those even real words?"

"Of course not," the dragon scoffed, spelling the fire out ("poxy snaf!"). "There are only a handful of spell-phrases that are. And with good reason, too. I mean to say, imagine if the incantation for sparking a flame were 'hot.' Every time someone brought up the weather, a house would burn down!"

Draco had to admit that there was some sense in this. Resigned to having to say ludicrous phrases such as "Dilly Bobble" all winter, he sat down beside the freshly spelled fire.

"When will you return?" Draco inquired, putting the appropriate amount of hostility in his voice so that the dragon didn't think he cared too much.

"Well, let's see...I think I'll stay there at least until mid-Spring; it starts to get muggy around that time. Oh, but at the Equinox they have such wonderful festivals. Oh, and the plays..." The dragon sighed wistfully. "I do love Bali. I'm so well-received there. Sometimes I hide in the water and tickle the swimming children, and then they run screaming back to their parents, crying, 'Mummy, Daddy, there's a sea-thing in the water!' and squealing with such delight...we have such fun together; they love me so..."

Draco put his head in his hands, trying not to throw a rock at the lamentably deluded chatterbox dragon. Taking notice, the dragon pushed up from his position on the ground and stretched from snout to tail, saying, "Well, I can see that you're tired from all that conjuring. Take care, my boy; I suppose I won't see you until Spring. Although you might not recognize me when I come back," he added with a wink, "All that time in the sun leaves me so tan, turns my scales the most delightful shade of gold, you know." Draco bravely tried to feign rapt attention, interested attention, partial attention, any attention at all, and was only too relieved when he caught the words, "...Well, I must be on my way, such a lot of preparations to be made..."

Saying his goodbye's to the dragon, he thought a little bitterly of the next few months he would have to spend alone. The dragon had never taken a vacation before this, for the winters had been mild and there had been no random boys to keep Draco silent company. But word of mouth had forecasted a harsher winter than was usually experienced in these parts, bringing even several feet of snow. And there was the boy.

Draco's thoughts turned to the enigmatic, cheerful visitor who had come regularly for the past month. It was true that the boy was interesting, if a bit disturbingly optimistic, but for one thing, Draco couldn't talk to the boy. In all truthfulness, Draco did not _allow_ himself to talk to the boy, having some queer obsession with maintaining some level of secrecy (that level had been steadily dropping as time progressed). For another thing, the boy had been coming less frequently since the cold had set in, and Draco feared he would stop coming altogether once the snow hit. It was hard to blame him, what with his woebegone state of dress that couldn't be proper for winter weather, but Draco did feel a tad betrayed. Harumphing at this train of thought, Draco decided to practice his newly learned spell.

Approaching the fire pit, which still had a reasonable amount of wood in it, Draco lifted his chin aristocratically. With as much dignity as he could muster, he commanded, "Dilly Bobble!"

The firewood mocked him with it's cold, flame-less branches.

Draco stomped and leaned closer. "Dilly Bobble!" It laughed at him still. "Dilly! Bobble! _Dilly Bobble!_" Fire shot several yards into the air two inches from his face, and Draco let out a horrifically girlish scream. The fire settled merrily in front of him, as if to say, "Oh, aren't I sweet?" Draco had the urge to spit. After a moment of consideration, he did. The fire hissed at him, sending a flying speck of ember his way by means of retort. Clearly live, spell-cast fires of non-dragon-breath origins were a bit touchy, and took things quite personally.

Draco practiced the spell throughout the week, having varying degrees of success and never getting it on the first try. The spell became quite necessary, too, as the cold increased its presence. One day Draco was huddling over the stubborn fire pit shouting exhaustedly, wearing a woolen dresscoat over his usual raiment, when a hum that had gone unheard for weeks penetrated the clearing. Panicking at the thought of being caught in the middle of something so obvious, Draco forgot all about the potion and hid behind his hut. The humming cut off as the not-quite-stranger noticed the crackling fire. A relieved grin spread across the black-haired boy's face, and he plopped down beside it, stretching his hands out to its deliciously hot flames.

Draco noted that, despite the stinging cold, the boy was still sporting the same pathetic attire. He thought of fetching one of the other dresses for him; he could split the plain black one down the front and make it look reasonably like a coat. He was hesitant to do so now, however, because even though the spell covered up tiny things like breathing and grass tread under foot (all part of the 'going unnoticed' part of the contract), an opening door would certainly get the boy's attention. He fought back the cricket-sized voice in his ear that said that maybe getting the boy's attention wasn't so bad a thing, and decided to set it out by the firepit after the boy had gone, so that he could discover it the next time he visited. Draco fervently wished there would be a next time, deciding as an afterthought that his yearning and enthusiasm was due to the dragon's departure and his own resultant lack of company.

Time wore on with the boy sitting next to the fire, hugging his knees. Draco had moved closer to alleviate the cold, but his legs and back had grown tired after standing in the same position for such a long time. Minute followed minute with no distinction, until at one point an ember popped out of the fire and landed on the black-haired boy's knuckle.

"Ow!" the boy cried sharply, frowning at the tiny burn and sucking on his knuckle. Draco felt a confusing desire to stare and move closer as the boy did so, and looked down to see that he was inadvertently running a finger over his own knuckle. He quickly jerked his hands back to his side, and the evening continued uneventfully. The sky deepened, the myriad of sunset colors shrinking, until a faded dark surrounded them. The back-haired boy looked up with a knowing sigh, and rose from the ground. Glancing around one final time in a lazy attempt to uncover the resident of the white hut, the boy faced south. He pulled his ratty cloak tight around him and looked longingly back at the fire, but turned away with a last sigh and left the clearing.

Draco didn't see him after that. He set out the dress-made-coat by the fire as he had resolved to do, but the boy made no more trips to the clearing. Draco wistfully thought that it was just as well, and busied himself by gathering supplies for the impending snow. He worked feverishly, collecting berries and fruits one day and digging up roots the next. His fingers grew stained with dirt, but he had no desire to wash them in the frigid stream, which was moving sluggishly by now.

Before dawn a few mornings later, he woke to find the ground coated lightly in snow, the tips of the longer stalks of grass poking through the crystalline white. He gazed at the moonlit scene for a few minutes, before rubbing his arms and returning to the warmth of his bedcovers. After the first snow he stayed in his hut, going outside only to light the fire. The fire he kept going at all times if he could help it; the heat would often seep into the hut and keep the snow at bay. Eventually, however, the pile of firewood ran out, and he had no choice but to brave the sparkling cold and gather more. He pulled on two extra dresses, both apparently worn by rather robust women, and topped the outfit with the woolen dresscoat. Grabbing a knotty staff to clear the snow ahead of him, and a rock-hewn knife to cut marks into trees so that he wouldn't lose his way, he grabbed the largest dress and tied the sleeves together, letting the rest of it drag on the ground. In this way he could tote more wood around than the meager amount his arms could hold, piling it all on the skirt and pulling the stocked-up dress behind him by the sleeves. He let out a dramatic sigh and stepped out the door, recasting the fire-spell so that the hut would not be too freezing when he got back.

The project proved more arduous than he expected. The staff was not very efficient in plowing the way, and pieces of wood occasionally tumbled off the dress, causing him to swear ill-temperedly and kick trees. These actions usually resulted in mouthfuls of snow from shaken branches, which caused more swearing but no additional kicking.

When the dress refused to carry another branch, Draco turned and began to retrace his path. He had not gone thirty feet when the wind picked up, whistling in his ears, and the snow tore down furiously from the sky. Gigantic flakes swarmed around him like icy white locusts and blinded his path, but Draco could squint and feel along where he had cut marks into the bark of trees he had passed. He was very grateful now for the little rock-chiseled knife and his presence of mind to bring it. Though he hadn't gone a very great distance, it took him hours to get back. Near the end he had had to push the wood-loaded dress in front of him; too much wood was falling off when he lugged it behind. Thus, aching, stiff, and absolutely crazy with cold, he nearly cried when he saw the gleam of his valiant, stalwart spell-fire. It took him another ten minutes to get to it, but when he did he dumped the firewood outside the hut door and stood as close to the blaze as was humanly possible without catching the woolen coat on fire. He briefly considered doing so, weighing the pros and cons of the brilliant momentary heat of clothing burning around you until you had to rip it off or let yourself burn alive. Even the latter part of the thought seemed enticing, until he remembered his vow of revenge on the villagers and decided not to give them the luxury of his suicide. He was determined, if not virtuous.

Staying by the fire a bit longer, his thoughts drifted to his family. He hadn't thought about them in years, but this sort of shock made him want to turn responsibility over to someone bigger than himself as he had so often done as a child. He smiled sadly at the fire upon remembering a time when he had played in the snow with no coat on, happily making snow villages to lord over, and throwing fistful after fistful of snow at the other children when they laughed at him for his solitude. In the end he had favored violence over snow warfare, and had even indulged in a little biting, as he was still around seven years old. The other children had screamed and stomped his houses into the ground before running away. Absolutely livid, seven-year-old Draco had painstakingly recreated them, taking until nightfall to do so. He made six more houses which he pretended were owned by the stupid village children who had laughed at him, and was stomping on them with all his might when his mother's voice pierced the air. He was surprised she had even come outside, until he looked around him and saw how dark it had gotten. She had given him a shrieking, bird-like lecture on his senseless behavior, and he had explained about the snow village and the laughing children and how he just_ had _to make the village again, leaving out the part about the biting. She had carried him off to his warm bed and forbid him to go outside for three days, which he spent dolefully gazing out the window at the exciting snow he wasn't playing with.

Yes, he had loved the snow then. He straightened up, brought back to present circumstances. The snow was not a thing of joy for him now, and he ad the villagers to thank for that. His mood considerably darkened, he stood up and walked to the hut. And when he opened the oak door, there was the back-haired boy, collapsed and frozen blue on the packed-dirt floor.


	4. Ch 3 Deep

Disclaimer: Poor innocent Harry Potter and poor...not-quite-so-innocent...Draco Malfoy just happened to wander into my story-starved clutches; they really belong to J. K. All cower before her. The Dumbledore Dragon concept is mine, unless Jo's holding out on us, but his character basis is still the property of Her Eminence Rowling. Grovel, mortals, grovel and flee like hell.

Warning: (music) "SLASH! AH-AHHHHH! IT'S SAVED EVERYONE OF US!!!" Okay, maybe not, but I couldn't resist the Queen reference; it just kept playing in my head. Guy/guy stuff. No likee, no readee, no problem. ee. (erghm....)

A/N: Without contest, my favorite chapter so far. I had to resist the urge to start singing, "_Caaaan _you feeeeeel_ the loooooove_ to-_niiiiiight_," while writing it, because it was four a.m. and my roommate was sleeping. An now I have that song stuck in my head and I can't stop giggling. I will mention that the slightly anachronistic use of the word "fucking" occurs in this chapter. I found it necessary.

Also, thanks, **myrti**, for your encouraging reviews. Here's your long-anticipated interaction! Er...after a fashion.

The Makings of a Damsel

Chapter Three

Deep

The first thing that sprang into Draco's mind was, _He didn't find the coat I left him_. Banishing this irrelevant thought, Draco rushed to the quietly shaking form on his floor, relieved to see that he was at least breathing, if unconscious. Looking about at a loss for what to do, Draco noticed that the boy had climbed in through the window, as evidenced by the snow dragged from the windowsill over the desk and onto the floor. The boy gave a twitch, a spasm of cold-choked muscle that ran down his arm like a frantic mouse.

Draco took a deep breath and regarded the boy. He had run to his side without question, but now he had to seriously assess the situation. If he chose to take care of the boy (and really, what choice did he have?), he was going to be found out. The potion did not extend so far as to disguise touch, and even barring that, Draco would be in the same small space with him constantly. This painstaking charade to keep himself halfway hidden would have to undergo some dire revisions, if not be banished entirely. Draco got up and pulled back the bedcovers; the decision was obvious.

Sliding his arms under the boy's knees and shoulders, Draco lifted him off the floor with a fair amount of effort, and set him carefully onto the bed. It was only when he removed his arms from under the boy that he jerked upward with a sharp, stinging thought: this was the first human contact he had had in six years. Draco gaped at the winter-beaten body lying prone on the bed and had to take several deep breaths to steady himself. It wasn't exactly that he had missed touching other people; he hadn't thought about it at all, really. But it was such an insignificant motion to contain such a profound occurrence, so much so that Draco was overwhelmed with the heady desire for more.

He watched, vaguely perplexed, as his pale fingers stretched out toward the black-haired boy's slack face. They hovered, uncertain, over the boy's forehead, lingering near the zig-zag scar that reminded him so powerfully of his own. Draco nearly choked on his own spit when his fingertips brushed the slight ridges of the mark, catching tufts of hair in between them. The severely isolated blonde youth goggled as he saw his fingers tracing a path down the bridge of the boy's nose. This was too much. Cheekbone. This was crazy, impossible, wrong. Jawbone. He couldn't be_ doing_ this. Chin. This was..this was...he finally jerked his fingers away like they were burning, just a hairs width from the boy's lips, which were pale and chapped with the cold.

Stomping a little to regain focus, Draco pulled the blankets up and tucked them around the boy, doing his best not to wake him. Then he pulled out the wobbly chair and sat on it backwards, resting his elbows on the unpolished back. As the snow fell at a slant outside the window, Draco stood vigil over the black-haired boy until his head drooped onto his arms and sleep softly conquered him.

He awoke to find a pair of green eyes staring intently in the direction of his left ear. Nearly toppling out of the chair in surprise, he grabbed for the edge and righted himself, leaning as far back from the speculative scrutiny of an apparently wide-awake black-haired boy as possible. Said boy removed his still-pale face from Draco's vicinity and crossed his arms with a sigh. Dawdling around the room, he stopped by the bookshelf with mild interest. Picking out a scarlet leather-bound text gilt with goldleaf, the pages of which were loose and sometimes falling out, he sat gingerly back down on the bed and drew his knees up about him. Draco relaxed; maybe this wouldn't be so different after all. He was still just an observer; no contact was necessary. Draco thought back to his inexplicable, almost perverse perusal of the black-haired boy's features ad shivered. No, contact wasn't necessary. And he didn't want it either. Really, he insisted to himself lamely.

He inspected the boy from his seat. His cheeks had regained a little of their original color, and he seemed to be moving about fairly well; not exactly performing pirhouettes with the greatest of ease, but not paralyzed either. That was a good sign. _But he still needs to stay longer!_ A voice cried, like a child unwilling to relinquish his playtime just yet. Draco batted the thought away. Still, as the frail boy coughed repeatedly into his fist during his little curl-up with the book, Draco admitted that the voice was right, if not entirely pure of intention.

Shifting off the chair, Draco decided to go outside and let the boy think what he would. Stepping out into the cold, his wool still snug about him since he hadn't had a chance to take it off, Draco cast a glance around. The spell-fire had weakened under the relentless torrent of heavy snow, but it still flickered palely in the firepit.

Draco crouched down to get closer to the smoldering stack of wood. He still clung to his silent identity, and was reluctant to speak loudly to stir the flames when the black-haired boy was within range.

"_Dilly Bobble_," Draco whispered hopefully; perhaps the fire would humor him just this once and let him get it right on the first try. The fire sputtered, sparking randomly and almost singing Draco's coat, and then caught, spreading benignly as if to say, "Alright, alright, just this once, dear." Draco bit his lip with pleased gratefulness, and rubbed his hands together for warmth. The blistering force of yesterday's storm was gone, but the snow still fell thickly around him, replacing shock value with steady results. The depth of the drifts was getting worrisome, he might end up snowed in for a few days. _We_, he reminded himself.

After many hours, each colder than the last, he gave up his attempt to escape the boy and went inside, knowing his nose was apallingly red and being thankful that the boy couldn't see him. As he entered, he found the boy's green eyes sparkling with laughter as they took in the contents of various sheets of parchment stacked upon the desk.

It was a picturesque scene, with the boy's feet tucked up beneath the chair and his chin resting in is hands, a laugh breaking the silence every few seconds. Picturesque, that was, until Draco realized what the pieces of parchment were. In a flurry, Draco strode to the desk and grabbed the parchment out from under the boy's gaze with an ardor that smacked of his younger days of village-children-house-stomping. The black-haired boy blinked in surprise, finding his reading material gone, and, aware that he had offended his host, had the grace to at least look apologetic. Draco was mollified, and he leaned against the bookshelf tiredly, struggling to keep his eyes open until the boy moved to the bed. Eventually he did, and Draco sat down for another night of sleep on the chair.

He was discussing the leaves with him, sitting on a small elephant in Bali. The black-haired boy, whose name was Milton, he knew, was in the middle of offering some thoughtful insight on the color of poplars when a strong wind blew them down the trapdoor that was suddenly beneath their feet. When they landed, Draco could see that Milton was bleeding from his eyes and his mouth, dark wine-colored stuff that dripped out like syrup. Draco licked it up, and told him not to worry, it was a professional. Then the boat they were on lurched, and Milton said that he was homesick, boats had always done that to him. Draco nodded before tending to the chicken dinner. If the pieces weren't properly weighed and sorted, all kinds of nasty things could happen. He was just putting a purple piece in the purple pile when he realized that, oh no, he had been tricked and it was really _green_. With a scream, he threw the piece of chicken to the floor, but it was too late; the chicken stared up at him with bulging eyes and round, gnashing teeth that were growing rapidly, and as it ate his hands he screamed the boy's name...

Draco nearly catapulted out of his chair, tripping over his feet and falling clumsily to the floor with an "uh-thump!" The boy's name was still ringing in his ears, he had screamed it so loud in the dream, but the ringing was so much louder than the word itself that he couldn't quite make out what it was. It hadn't been Milton, that much was certain.

He shifted his gaze to the bed where the boy was...not...sleeping...Draco shoved himself off the floor and bolted outside, his fears erased when he saw the boy crouched within the amber glow of the fire. The snow was falling peacefully around them, having subsided to smaller, softer flakes, and even Draco had to concede that the sight was pretty. The black-haired boy was smiling sleepily at the sight, and Draco had to furrow his eyebrows again at his ability to remain happy in such deplorable circumstances.

It was then that he noticed the tear sliding leisurely down the boy's still-smiling visage. He was of two minds: Crying was humiliating and Draco was embarrassed for him, and, it was about time he cried, with all that had happened, even if he did do it with a happy expression. Draco watched a second tear follow the first, and was reminded of the sticky blood in his dream. His heart did an erratic flip-flop when he recalled exactly what he'd done next in the dream plotline. He willed himself to look at anything but the boy for the next few minutes, and did a decent job of it, so he was surprised when the boy's voice ignited in the darkness.

"I don't have anywhere else." The voice was soft and contemplative, and somehow very befitting of the boy's dark eyebrows; Draco could tell that when it was friendly and not melancholy, it would be the exact sort of voice you would confide in, that would confide in you, and then laugh and make a joke in a way that left the situation comfortable. There were a few levels of untapped steel lying in wait in the voice that Draco was uncertain about, and a few mocking little twists swirling like eddies between syllables, but overall it was a voice to go to for safety or for challenge, and certainly a voice to trust.

The voice went on, "I don't have anywhere else, but I probably won't stay that much longer. I'll probably leave tomorrow." The resolution, that sense of fair play laced into the boy's statement, made Draco resign himself to letting the boy go almost instantly.

Almost.

He went back into the hut, and the boy followed suit a fair time later. Draco watched as he crawled into the bed with a touch of that impending goodbye-sadness that makes people pull the covers up just a little bit closer. He bit back an insult, something about stupid boys who cry like babies have laughably hopeless, sneer-worthy hair, who are too poor to get a coat for winter and who think they actually belong somewhere when it's obvious that they'll never fit in. Toward the end he wondered which one of them he was talking about. He shut his eyes painfully and wrestled with a half-hearted sleep for the entire night.

The bright light of snow-reflected sun pried his eyes open. Lately he felt like this was all he ever did, sleep and wake up, sleep and wake up. His eyes and teeth felt gritty, and as he stretched he remembered the boy.

Casting a wary glance over to the bed, he was relieved to find the black-haired boy reading another novel. But his relief quickly soured when he thought of the boy's comments the previous night. It didn't matter if he were still here now; he would be gone before the day was up. Draco sighed in irritation, trying to console himself with the fact that he would get to sleep in his own bed again. It wasn't very effective consolation.

With a miffed snort, he rose from the chair and made a decision. If the boy was just going to leave, then he sure as hell wasn't going to stick around for it. Picking up the black coat-dress he had made (it seemed so long ago) for the boy, he tossed it on top of him and turned sharply. Straightening his woolen dresscoat out, and grimacing when he realized he hadn't taken it off in three days, he strode purposefully toward the door and pulled it open.

A bony hand slammed in front of him, the attached arm stretched out taut and blocking his path. Draco's breath stuck somewhere between a hiccup and a scream as the boy glared intently at his face, his eyes making tiny little darts as he tried to figure out exactly where Draco was. Gradually that molten gaze cooled with a touch of pensiveness, a frown still tight around his mouth. As Draco fought to remember how breathing worked, the black-haired boy cleared his throat.

"Thank you." was all he said, before removing the arm in Draco's way. Draco blinked once, twice, a bit dazed, and robotically proceeded out the door. Shutting it behind him, he slumped against its snow-dusted frame, letting out an enormous, regretful, utterly conclusive sigh. Then he pushed himself off the door and walked into the snow.

When he returned, the boy was gone. Draco threw himself on the bed with gusto just to spite him.

He stayed in bed sulking for the better portion of the next day. When he rose at last from the pile of violet blankets, he stood at his desk for several minutes, quill poised wickedly over his curling, cracking parchment. With his malicious scowl of old stamped into his face, he tried to come up with a final, excruciating, body-wrecking, mind-shredding, utterly cataclysmic curse for the villagers, one that would frighten even the deepest, blackest portents of hell. Nothing came to him.

In the end he gave up and threw his quill into the pot.

Later that day, as the mellowness of afternoon was chased away by bleak snowclouds, Draco decided that he needed to fetch some water. He had done well enough drinking melted snow for the past month, but was actually a bit eager to retrieve water from stream now that it had frozen over. The dragon had regaled him with tales of the bitter northern regions, where people wore heavy furs and dug holes in the ice to get water supplies. Draco had been fascinated despite himself, and was quite looking forward to trying it out on his own.

He had only the vaguest notion of how to go about doing it; really he knew nothing more than that holes were made in the ice, so he brought along his rock knife and hoped for the best.

Reaching the stream, he surveyed the display with relish. He had seen iced-over bodies of water when he was younger, but had been strictly warned against playing near them. Draco put a tentative toe on the edge of the ice and applied pressure. It seemed to hold. However, when he put both feet on the ice he slipped and fell backwards, a snowdrift on the bank softening the blow. Not favoring a broken tailbone, Draco made his way out onto the ice on his hands and knees, shuffling laboriously and breathing hard. His palms stung with what he suspected was frostbite, but he smiled between huffs and fished out his knife.

Gripping it tightly, he began stabbing at the glossy surface, chipping away small glistening chunks. He frowned; it had sounded a lot simpler the way the dragon had described it, but he toiled on. At long last, after jabbing and scraping repeatedly in a circle, a sizeable span of ice fell through, revealing charmingly gurgling water underneath. Suddenly anxious, Draco sat up and wondered how on earth one got the water home, for he had brought neither bowl nor bucket. Admittedly, Draco's talent did not lie in thorough planning. Nonetheless, he bared his greedy, self-satisfied teeth at the water, immensely proud of himself.

He barely had time to register the creak and the snap before plunging into the terrifyingly icy stream and the water engulfed him so cold choking him flailing so unbelievably cold oh no no no and gasping and nothing he couldn't feel anything cold cold cold his fingers bleeding holding onto the ice he couldn't think it was stabbing his brain and screaming oh _no_ slipping and screaming coldcoldcoldcold_COLD_ he was freezing to death death he was going to die cold ripping him apart he was going to die and the dragon in Bali while here cold scorchingly cold cold shutting his throat die he was going he was cold Bali cold cold boy all gone iceandiceandiceandice villagers his mother frozen all dead poisonous cold killing them him the final freezing BITE he was going die he was dying now rising above shrieking cold ebbing into dazed tingling sun-bright air blinding and floating sideways landing thump and pair of arms squeezing almost as tight as the cold had...

He slowly realized that he was not dead.

"You." the boy whispered.

"......._You_. I know you're there. God, I thought...when I saw...You're there. I know you are; just because I can't see you, I can still...I KNOW you're there, I know it and I don't want you to be fucking dead so just ANSWER ME!"

Shouting now. Draco raised his head, his neck pricking and groaning in protest. He lifted his hand jerkily toward the boy's face, which was contorted with anger and desperation, and scraped his frozen fingers over his cheeks and jaw. The boy seemed to calm down a little.

"I guess...you're wondering how I knew you were in trouble." Draco hadn't been wondering, but he was curious now. The boy went on.

"I followed you. I left and I waited and I saw the door open and I followed you. I lost you a couple of times after that, but every now and then I would hear a noise and chase after it. And it was really hard, but I could make out these tracks in the snow, only they were blurry like I had something in my eyes or something. And then I came to the stream and I was looking around, and suddenly there was this hole punched out in the ice, so I knew you were there." He paused. "And then the ice cracked." Draco shuddered, both from the water seeping into his skin and the breathless fear of the memory.

The boy hesitated. "I guess I'll take you back now; you can't be too heavy." Draco wondered distantly why he had said that. With a grunt, the boy heaved him onto his back, and carried Draco's shivering body back to the hut. Draco scrambled weakly off the boy's back as they approached the fire, and the boy got the hint and crouched down a few feet away from him. Draco collapsed next to the flames, struggling to breath and clinging to the ring of stones surrounding the base of the fire, the hottest part.

Then Draco jerked up, wincing as he did so, and stumbled into the hut. The boy followed, half-nervous, and shut the door behind him. Draco hurried as fast as his still-stinging legs would carry him over to the trunk, and shoved the lid open. He tore his coat off, casting it wildly to the floor, and began ripping through his other layers of clothes. Hearing the thick, wet rustling of material being pulled about and seeing clothes suddenly appear on the floor, the boy put two and two together and turned away with a slight blush, even though he could not see Draco. Draco nearly bit off his tongue when the final layer was removed and he was naked in the cold; it was almost like being back under the ice, but he wrenched the first dress he grabbed over his head and breathed a sigh of relief as the haunting feeling receded. He pulled dress after dress onto his body until his shaking died down, and then he crawled into the bed.

After a while, the boy turned back around, his arms crossed, and spoke up tentatively. "...Are you alright?" Draco wasn't sure how best to respond.

"...Are you alive?" Draco coughed, proving that he was not yet a corpse.

The boy sighed, smiling in a worried way. "Do you want me to stay?" _Yes,_ Draco thought, but he coughed twice, hoping the boy could decipher the simple code.

"So that's...two coughs means no?" He looked down at the floor, then back up. "So you don't want me to stay." It was a statement. Draco didn't have to answer.

"Right. Right, so...so I'll just be going, then."

The boy uncrossed his arms and walked toward the door, but Draco's hand shot out instinctively and grabbed the boy's hand.

"Thank you." Draco whispered, his voice skipping and scratching over those two tiny syllables, a feeble echo of the his savior's earlier expression of gratitude.

The boy gave Draco's hand a squeeze, smiling. "Just returning the favor."

The door shut solidly. With the warmth of the boy's hand still tingling in Draco's fingers and palm, the hut was empty. Draco shut his eyes.

A/N: Oddly enough, I wrote this chapter in pieces. I wrote the ending (my favorite part) first, the went back to the beginning, and then sort of skipped around filling in holes in the middle. So if it seems choppy, that's why. I plan on doing two more chapters in this arch, not wanting to draw it out unnecessarily, but originally there were only going to be three chapters total, and that hasn't exactly gone according to plan, so we'll see what happens. Egads, I'm tired.


	5. Ch 4 The Learning Curve

Disclaimer: Poor innocent Harry Potter and poor...not-quite-so-innocent...Draco Malfoy just happened to wander into my story-starved clutches; they really belong to J. K. All cower before her. The Dumbledore Dragon concept is mine, unless Jo's holding out on us, but his character basis is still the property of Her Eminence Rowling. Grovel, mortals, grovel and flee like hell.

Warning: (music) "SLASH! AH-AHHHHH! IT'S SAVED EVERY ONE OF US!!!" Okay, maybe not, but I couldn't resist the Queen reference; it just kept playing in my head. Guy/guy stuff. No likee, no readee, no problem. ee. (erghm....)

A/N: It took about three months to work up the will to get this chapter out, and in that time I did a lot of gorging upon other people's splendiforous fics (desolation's Petshop of Horrors fic "Some Kind of Bliss" had me clenching my teeth in anticipation). But finally, I decided it's about time I got those silly, endearing boys together. Whaddaya say?

The Makings of a Damsel

Chapter Four

The Learning Curve

Apparently, the boy had taken him a bit too literally when he had said he hadn't wanted him to stay. For here it was, a month and a half later, and Draco had not seen so much as a snippet of unmanageable black hair since the boy had left.

The first week, Draco had been understanding. It was still winter, and a treacherous one at that, and the trip to the clearing was likely hard to manage.

The second week, Draco had been rational. Two weeks was not an especially long time, and the snow had yet to really recede to a convenient state for travel. Besides, it wasn't as if his happiness depended on the boy.

The third week, Draco had been forgiving. It was alright, he figured, if the boy took a little longer than Draco wanted, and it was still a bit chilly, even if the snow had been paltry as of late. He could certainly overlook it.

The fourth week, Draco had been concerned. He had honestly thought that the boy would have returned by now. The thought that the boy might never come back started to wink at him from across his reasoning.

The fifth week, Draco had been anxious. The fear of the boy's permanent departure had wedged itself firmly into the door of Draco's logic, and insecurity was running amok in his brain.

The sixth week, Draco had been furious. How could the boy do this? Hadn't he, Draco, saved his life? Given him his home? True, the black-haired boy had done the same for him, but this wasn't about debts repaid, this was about bonds established. And they had one, Draco insisted willfully to himself; they had one and it was cruel and thoughtless and downright uncivilized to just abandon such a connection.

During a particularly lonely moment when Draco's fury had flared again, he smashed the two remaining bottles of invisibility potion onto the floor, shouting with an absolute rage that seemed jarringly large for his slight form. In the raw, prickly moments immediately after his tantrum, he breathed heavily and indignantly, and as he cleaned up the shards of multi-colored glass on the floor, a binding certainty seeped into his bones. Whatever the black-haired boy had been to him, it was gone. The air around him seemed to drain itself of substance, and a numbing sort of emptiness filled the room as Draco faced his loss honestly.

…Well, who cared about some mangy stray boy anyway, with his scruffy, soft-looking hair and his weird, alluring green eyes and his sappy, heroic smile, and especially his stupid matching scar? Who cared about some poor-but-charming savior who had pulled Draco out of the fatally icy stream and wrapped him in his staggeringly warm arms and carried him back to life itself?

Draco certainly didn't. He did _not_ (here he stomped to emphasize to the world that he was serious indeed) care about any of that. The boy could hang for all he cared.

Except that when he thought of the boy dangling from a noose somewhere, an involuntary tremor seized his hand, one which Draco had to concentrate very hard on to still.

But really, this had to stop. It was Tuesday of the seventh week, and Draco had been stewing on the final departure of the black-haired boy for four days. He rather felt like kicking something. Leering menacingly at the chair, he did just that, but upon remembering the many (fine, only three) nights he had spent sleeping there in the boy's company, he repented and patted the chair mournfully. Then, with an irrationally frustrated hiss, he spun around and stomped out the door.

Squatting by the dying fire, which he still kept going even though nearly all of the snow had melted, he growled, "Dilly Bobble." The fire seemed observant enough to catch Draco's less-than-pleasant mood, for it decided to appease him on the second try and save the torment for another day. Pulling a handful of berries out of his coat pocket, he popped them into his mouth and began chomping maliciously. He was about to launch into another biting mental tirade when he heard a heavy shuffle pushing through the underbrush.

The hope he irately wished he didn't feel died when he saw the massive form of the dragon bumbling out of the bushes. His scales were indeed now gold and not green, and he looked a tiny bit fatter. Of course, the dragon was a preposterously large creature as it was, so Draco wasn't positive of that.

"Draco my boy!" (the dragon's voice was still goadingly cheery and grand) "Oh, the things you missed in Bali! I must say I was so glad to visit it again; it has been such a long time. Still the same as when I was just ten feet tall! Well, they did have something new with fire and a dancing girl," he admitted. "But oh, the sun! The food! And swimming, ah, I'd wager I swam for nearly a month straight out! And the children were so glad to see me again…" he looked fondly into the distance, clearly reliving tan little ten-year-olds, screaming their round heads off in what he interpreted as euphoria. Chuckling a little, he turned to Draco and considerately inquired, "So. How was your winter?"

A number of black responses offensive even for a conversation with a beast flew through his head, mixed in with flashes of truth—terrible, wonderful, hellish and bittersweet and new in ways he couldn't articulate and wasn't sure he wanted to, now that it had all been taken away from him.

He settled on a resigned and half-hearted, "alright, I suppose," and prepared himself for two hours of a newly golden dragon rambling about blue seas and sunshine, but it never came.

"You know," said the dragon a touch loftily, "I believe I saw that wayward youth you made friends with heading this way as I flew overhead."

Draco's brain seemed to shut down while his heart started pounding as if he had been holding his breath for five minutes. He heard himself reply, "We're not friends" even as he dashed across the clearing.

"A bit more to the west, I think he was," the dragon called out. Laughing quietly to himself, the dragon crept back into the forest with a gleam of silly triumph in his amber eyes.

Draco entered the forest, head whipping about in every direction, looking for that annoying, oblivious, perfect idiot who he had thought would never return. Trampling the sprouting flowerbeds as he ran, Draco considered the fact that he had no idea what he would do once he found the black-haired boy. "Cut his hair" came to mind, but Draco shook his head and increased speed. As budding trees flew past him, he tripped over an inconspicuous root and was sent catapulting to the ground. Hissing in irritation, he scrambled back to his feet. His hands, which he had instinctively thrust in front of him to break his fall, began to throb and sting as the cool spring air invaded the scraped-off skin near his wrist. Gritting his teeth, he launched back into full sprint, or at least as full sprint as his less-than-fit body could manage. So determined was he that he nearly missed the black-clad figure walking in the opposite direction mere feet away. Half-tripping over himself in his effort to turn around, he had to stop short to avoid smacking into two bright, surprised, heartrendingly familiar green eyes.

The eyes blinked.

"You're a boy."

An agonizing month of separation and uncertainty, and all the unfeeling boy could say was something as inane as _that?_ Draco wanted to scream.

"I mean…" the boy clarified, "You're not a girl."

"However did the scholar's council let you go?" Draco spat caustically. All in all, this introduction (Draco realized with a funny start that that was what it was) was rather anticlimactic.

The black-haired boy looked appallingly amused. How dare he find humor in this? What right did he have after everything that he had made, yes _made_, as in _forced_ Draco to go through? The audacity! He was really much more gaulingly impudent than Draco had anticipated. He half-wanted to forget the whole thing and head back to the hut, but the need to regain his dignity was too compelling.

"What exactly…" Draco made sure to sound condescending, "made you think that I was a girl?"

The boy shrugged amicably. "Well, I mean…there were all those dresses in that trunk—nothing but dresses, actually. Not to mention you seemed sort of small, or short, or thin or something, when I pulled you out of the water that time."

"You're barely taller than me!" Draco cried in indignation. _If you had spent the last six years eating nothing but birds and berries, you'd be malnourished, too,_ he thought crossly. He then recalled that the boy's food supply was basically on par with his own, and his sympathy was invoked. That is, until he realized that the boy had still managed to end up standing a fair few inches above Draco's height.

Well, fine. That boy could just take his cheek and his bad hair and his taunting tallness and rot. Draco decided he wanted to forget the whole thing after all, and began walking briskly away.

"Oh come on, I'm sorry!" the boy laughed, sincere repentance in his voice. Draco remembered thinking that it was a voice that you could always trust. He sighed and came to a stop but did not turn around. Crunches on the ground made their way closer as the boy jogged up to him. "Hey," he said, looking more directly at Draco than most people were inclined to look at anybody, "I really am sorry. I just didn't think about it."

His expression fading from offended to vaguely annoyed, Draco inwardly sighed.

"Fine." The contrite look on the black-haired boy's face spread into a smile of relief and simple happiness, and Draco became aware of how close the boy's face was to his. Fighting down a ripple of nervousness, he rolled his eyes and continued walking. He did, however, make sure to walk slowly, so as to indicate that the boy could follow if he wanted to. Apparently he did.

"So what's your name?" the boy asked, casually ambling on Draco's right side.

"Draco Malfoy," he replied neutrally.

The boy's mouth twitched, but he didn't say anything about Draco's unusual name. After a short silence with just a faint whiff of awkwardness, the boy spoke up. "I'm Harry."

Something clicked in Draco's brain, and the memory of the dream with the black-haired boy—he was Harry now—and the elusive name he had screamed at the end rushed back and resolved itself. He smirked.

"Kind of a boring name, isn't it?"

_Harry_ raised his eyebrows. "I guess anything would be boring if you grew up answering to the name of Draco Malfoy," he quipped back.

Draco shot him a look. "Commoner."

This only made Harry laugh, and retort, "At least I wear boy's clothing."

"_You_ are in _no_ position to lecture me on my state of dress. You dress like a thief!"

"I think a thief would be able to steal better clothes," Harry pointed out. Draco payed no attention, but continued.

"…And your hair! I'm completely cut off from all forms of civilization, but I still manage to make my hair look good."

Harry grinned. "I didn't realize that vanity was a virtue."

"Just as well that you didn't. Even if you did have the proper appreciation of the personal aesthetic, it would be utterly wasted on you," Draco said, turning up his nose affectedly.

"'Personal aesthetic,' huh? Is that your excuse for wearing frilly dresses?"

"That's all I _have!_ And they aren't frilly."

Harry sighed good-naturedly. "You're right of course. They're the paragon of manliness."

They bickered all the way through the forest. Draco scowled and sneered, and was never sparing in the proportions of disdain that he dished out, but inwardly he was marveling at how easy this was. Somehow he had imagined that it would require a lot of effort to interact with this boy. After all, he hadn't had many (any) friends in the village, and even his mother had given him up to sure death. He had just assumed that you would have to work very, very hard to get people to stay with you, even for a little while.

The pair arrived at the hut and Harry hung behind politely as though he had never been in Draco's makeshift home.

Draco gave him a funny look from through the doorway. "You can come in, you know."

Harry shrugged, an apparent habit, and walked in. "I've only been in here once…"

"Twice."

"…And that was out of necessity."

They both paused and turned their thoughts inward recollecting the furious snowstorm and the treacherous ice.

"Thanks for that, by the way," said Harry, pulling Draco out of his still-difficult reminiscence.

"Hmm? Oh. You already thanked me for that."

"That's true. But I wanted to thank you in person. Or…I mean, you _were_ there, but I couldn't see you and all...you know what I'm saying." Draco gave a breathy laugh from his seat on the bed. "So, thank you."

Again, that ingenuous sincerity that seemed like it could pierce absolutely anything, the strongest metal or the most stubborn hide.

"You're welcome," Draco answered, and his voice was a little bit scratchy and not nearly as easy as he would have preferred. His throat constricted further when Harry sat down next to him.

"Hey…Draco—d'you want me to call you Draco or Malfoy?"

"Draco's fine," he rasped, trying hard not to look over at Harry.

"Draco then. You've got something on…"

Draco turned his head toward Harry as if he had lost all control of his motor functions, and involuntarily leaned in a fraction as Harry's terrifyingly warm fingers brushed a stray piece of his hair off his face and tucked it back behind his ear, which he was sure was impossibly red at the moment. Harry looked straight at Draco and said, "There. Just helping you out with your 'personal aesthetic'."

The boy began to snicker.

Draco pushed him off the bed.

A/N: Gahh, the ending was a little abrupt, but I couldn't go on to the next section of the piece without making it about twice as long, so there the story ends. I'm aiming for one more chapter and a shorter epilogue, but as always, that may or may not happen. Now my brain is all fuzzy, like an image on an etch-a-sketch that got shaken accidentally, all due to lack of sleep. So, naturally, I'll post this and either continue with the next chapter or write something else (Saiyuki!) or at the very least have a fanfic-binge. And I even have to get up at five-thirty tomorrow (the WEEKEND!) for community service. The joy that is my life goes "boink."


End file.
